


...and Stars Die Slowly

by EvilPeaches



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: A lot of shame, Angst and Tragedy, Betrayal, Bisexuality, Dark, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First Love, Friends to Lovers to Enemies, Frottage, Future's Program Days, Galen never had it easy, Galen-Centric, Grief/Mourning, Hand Jobs, Heavy Angst, Jealousy, Love Triangles, M/M, Manipulation, Mostly Pre-Rogue One, Mostly Unwilling Infidelity, Mutual Pining, Past Relationship(s), Possessive Behavior, Timeframe Spans Years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:21:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28251552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvilPeaches/pseuds/EvilPeaches
Summary: The years are long and time is unkind to them both.In the end, Orson Krennic will get what he wants. Galen should have known.*******Set long before Galen and Lyra flee to become quiet farmers, coming full circle to after Galen is repossessed by the Director.
Relationships: Galen Erso/Lyra Erso, Galen Erso/Orson Krennic
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	...and Stars Die Slowly

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** I don't own any of the characters or Star Wars.
> 
>  **AN:** This fic **loosely** lines up with canon timelines and bits and pieces from "Catalyst" (and mostly predating Rogue One). **FAIR WARNING:** some things will not be exactly the same. For example, in the book, Lyra actually had met Orson before she & Galen were imprisoned on Vallt. In this fic, I found it far more fun to play with the idea that Lyra and Orson had not met prior to Orson rescuing them. Some things are still the same: they don't like each other XD
> 
> LONG time frame, starting from the days in the program. I'm sure there will be an inaccuracy or two, but oh well, this is fanfic, peeps.

They are young when they meet on Brentaal.

The Future’s Program is quite the prestigious affair, designed for future leaders and great minds of the galaxy. Only children from the best families attend. Only the most privileged, from greatly desired planets.

The thing is, Galen Erso is _none_ of these things. He’s a boy from a backwater planet called Grange, a place known for little more than being good for agriculture and being a jump spot for distant space travel. No, Galen isn’t from a wealthy, well-admired family. In fact, he attends on scholarship.

A charity case, as it were, to all the cruel mouths that never cease to whisper behind his back.

Even if he were not viewed as a lowly peasant boy, he gathers he still wouldn’t have many friends. He’s not good with socializing, doesn’t quite know what to say next, how to follow the conversations. Little social cues. He’s blunt, to the point. Far too logical. Sometimes, he says things he shouldn’t, things that make other people wince.

In fact, Galen is quite certain that he is what people call a social pariah. _Hm_.

It’s fine, he thinks. He isn’t here to make friends. He’s in the program to learn more, to enable himself to gain access to resources in the future, resources that will allow him to research all the mysteries of the galaxy. Like the kyber crystals, stones of great worth used in Jedi lightsabers.

He should like to study such beauty. Such _raw power_.

The teachers find many of his ideas outrageous. _Unthinkable_. Absolutely impossible. Students give him odd looks and professors sigh in dismay whenever he hands in a thesis. _'Another one of his mad flights of fantasy,'_ he imagines them thinking when their brows furrow. His fellow students don't invite him to parties, because he's a bit of a wallflower and possibly maudlin when he drinks _-and they all know this because he went out that one time, never to be mentioned again-_

Needless to say, this is all a recipe for Galen spending much of his time alone, and being alone suits him just fine until he’s approached by the least likely person.

“Hey. You’re good with numbers, aren’t you? Do you think you can help me on this homework? I’m failing quite spectacularly. It’s almost a crime. My father will have my hide if I flunk the class.”

For a moment, Galen doesn’t even look up, because no one _ever_ talks to him on _purpose_. Who would be speaking to him, the odd boy from Grange? The boy with his sad, threadbare clothes and odd mannerisms?

“Are you deaf? I’d not heard that about you,” the voice continues amicably. “I’ll try again. HEY. YOU’RE GOOD-”

Oh. He _is_ talking to Galen. Looking up sharply, Galen enunciates as clearly as he can, because he knows his accent is thick. “I heard you the first time. I didn’t think you were speaking to me. I apologize.”

He’s looking at pale blue eyes, the color of sapphires. Clear, sharp. Very direct. It’s Orson Krennic, he realizes with confusion. Brash and bold, known for getting his way. Charming, because many of the girls talk about him with giggles and blushes. People like Krennic, his fine-upbringing clear in his speech and actions. Adults like how easily he smiles and how he says exactly the right things, everything they want to hear. He's very good at social cues, from what Galen has seen. Not that he's seen much of the other young man, they don't typically have the same classes, but he's heard of him.

Orson Krennic is apparently the life of the party, if the rumors are true.

“Oh, well I am indeed speaking to you. Can you help or not? I’d greatly appreciate it. I’m rather hopeless, if you must know.” Those fine eyebrows arch. “Do you require groveling? I can do that if I must.”

Galen imagines Orson Krennic would do just about anything he must to get his way. The charming smile on his mouth is clearly meant to set Galen at ease in his presence. 

So, Galen helps with Orson’s homework, trying to teach him what he can. The work is simple for Galen, so simple that Orson appears stunned. As if he hadn't truly believed Galen to be a genius or even worthy of the program itself.

“What’s your name again? Erdo?”

“Erso,” Galen corrects simply. He doesn’t expect Orson Krennic to remember. He doesn’t expect Orson Krennic will ever speak to him again after he gets what he wants.

“Hmm. That’s right.” A pause. “I should like to study with you more. If you don’t mind. Once isn’t going to save my grade, I’m sorry to say.”

Just like that, he becomes a fixture in Galen’s life, with or without his permission. A take and take sort of relationship. At first, Orson disappears after getting what he comes for, never opting to spend time with Galen after studying. It does feel a bit like being used, which grates on Galen's nerves. However, it isn't like he expected anything different from the other boy. Orson Krennic is good at attempting to _pretend_ he isn't using Galen for his knowledge and Galen is good at trying to not take it personal. Orson is a big talker, he learns, and the other boy certainly must love the sound of his own voice.

Galen is certain he may begin having nightmares about Orson Krennic talking about how important he intends to be once he graduates. He might also start having nightmares about Orson Krennic examining his own reflection in the dormitory mirrors. Vanity is a foreign concept to Galen and his new companion, if that is indeed what Orson is, reeks of it. 

They are nothing alike, yet Galen decides he might just enjoy the company of the other boy. Orson is fiery, alive. Always in motion, bright and passionate about _oh so much_. Politics and _being seen as important_ is in his every breath. While he's terrible at math, he's astounding when it comes to architecture and structure, planning large scale projects. Orson is a people person, a leader, but Galen thinks he might be a tad bit too aggressive to be a _good leader_. Either way, he is a change in Galen's never changing life...and it's nice to feel like he has a companion. 

"I read a few of your papers, you know," Orson says out of the blue one day, trying to look disinterested in everyone and everything. "The things you want to do...they're-"

"The ideas of a madman?" Galen supplies blandly.

"No!" Orson says a little too sharply. Galen gives him an odd look, and Orson softens his features into a sheepish grin in response. "What I mean is, no, your ideas are going to go places. To harness all that power? Could you imagine? If you could do as you have theorized...applying that to a mass structure...like a station...there would be nothing more spectacular in all the universe!"

Galen frowns at his datapad. "You've thought about my papers rather thoroughly, haven't you?" It strikes him as strange even as it thrills him. "I didn't think you cared about such things."

Krennic gives him an odd little smirk. "Well. I think you're underestimating my interests. Stick with me and you'll go places, Erso."

He finds himself wishing he could unravel the mystery of Orson Krennic and his sudden interest in Galen's ideas. 

* * *

  
As months go by, Orson begins to linger about like a bad habit. Galen isn’t sure what to make of that.

During one of their study sessions, hidden away in one of the alcoves in the library, Orson drawls in his pristine accent, “You’re an odd one, Galen Erso. Fascinating, but odd.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“You should come to lunch with me some day. Stop being such a recluse.” The offer sounds like a demand and Galen’s surprised by it.

Orson Krennic wants to study at lunch? Galen asks about that, rather confused by the whole concept.

The other young man laughs, bright and loud. “No, farmboy. I want you to eat lunch with me. We don’t need to just study, you know.”

When Orson leaves, Galen wonders if it’s a prank. Why would Orson Krennic even want to risk being seen with a lowly charity case like Galen at his lunch table?

Maybe Galen is overthinking it. Maybe Orson is so self-confident that he doesn't care. So, Galen eats with him. Studies with him. Eventually, they hang out in Galen’s room while Orson drinks from a flask and regales Galen with tales of his recent conquests with some girls down the hall. Galen doesn't need to be a genius to see that Orson Krennic isn't good at being alone. 

Not like Galen is.

More and more, he finds Orson hanging about in his room, simply lounging about to chat on Galen's latest ideas for research and about his goals for after graduation. Sometimes, he shows Galen his designs, things he intends to present to the Professor of Advanced Space Architecture. "You're quite the artist," Galen comments, impressed. 

"Thanks." Orson cracks his neck a bit, grinning. "I intend to work for the Republic when I graduate. The funding will be immeasurable." 

_...and probably corrupt,_ Galen thinks to himself, not wanting to mention it aloud. Politics aren't his thing and battling with Orson over some words is too tedious to consider.

* * *

It turns out, Orson Krennic enjoys fighting, though not with Galen, thankfully. That's not to say he doesn't enjoy fighting on Galen's behalf. This comes to light when one of Galen's disgruntled classmates pick's a fight with him over a class curve and Orson just so happens to step in and throw a punch with all the glee of a sadist. "Take that back, you brain-dead nerf herder."

The scuffle doesn't last very long and it turns out that Orson is quite the scrappy bastard.

Galen realizes Orson _just_ might be invested in him. Galen finds himself shaking his head in disbelief and vague amusement, staring at Orson’s bloodied lips when all is said and done.

“Why did you do that? That...that really had nothing to do with you. You aren't even in that class.”

“Do what? Punch that neanderthal into the next galaxy? Because you’re _my_ friend. Why else?” Orson is flexing his fingers, knuckles bruised and bloodied. There's a flush on his face, a certain bloodthirsty excitement hovering about him. Violence brings him joy in a way that it will never thrill Galen. 

_He said friend_. Galen feels his heart leap awkwardly in his chest. He has…a friend? Orson Krennic, charming, charismatic, bold and outgoing, counts Galen Erso as his friend? Worthy of defense?

Orson spits blood on the cement. “Don’t look so surprised. What do you think we’ve been doing all this time, Galen? You're so dense sometimes. Brilliant, but _oh so_ dense.”  
  


* * *

  
Prior to Galen's graduation, their relationship begins to mature into something different. The years have passed in a startling whirl, Galen slowly growing out of his shell, though reluctant to leave it entirely.   
  
On the occasions that Orson can convince Galen to accompany him to social affairs, Galen finds himself at a loss on how to act. Frozen in analytics. Everyone knows the rules of the game and he seems to be completely oblivious. It's miserable, but Galen goes because Orson asks him to. He suffers through the gatherings as all eyes turn in his direction. Not at Galen, actually, no one quite cares about him. He has no political connections, no money, nothing that would cause anyone to try and get to know him, not in a place like this. They're looking at the young man beside him. Orson, who shines the minute he enters a room. People gravitate to him, like bees to honey. 

"Orson, I missed you last weekend," a girl says sweetly as she brushes right past Galen in her efforts to get to his friend. She couldn't be more obvious, her interest plain on her face. "I thought we were going to take a trip off-world?"

Galen feels himself mentally frowning. Very odd. Orson was with Galen the other weekend. Was he supposed to be elsewhere? His mind runs through the options, trying to understand what's unfolding as Orson gives her a wide smirk. "Oh, sweetheart. I'm sorry, I just, _oh_ , got so caught up in studying for exams. You know how serious I am about my studies. I'll be sure to give you a call this Friday, alright? You're a doll." His eyes hover over her exposed chest in an obvious manner that even has Galen cringing. "Look how lovely you look tonight."

"Oh, you noticed?" The girl is beaming, her cheekbones bright red. "Friday it is. I'll be waiting." She winks and drifts away, barely a glance towards Galen at all. 

Orson goes expressionless soon after her back turns and Galen wonders about that. "Who is she? Are you seeing her...like a girlfriend?" Orson often has different bedmates, and he doesn't keep any of them around.

Snorting into his whiskey, Orson gives Galen an incredulous look, eyes glittering. Wrapping his arm around Galen's shoulders, he leans in to whisper, "To tell you the truth, I don't even know her kriffing name." He's snickering with a hint of cruelty and Galen feels bad for the girl, confused by the entire exchange.

"Then, why did you say those things to her?" More than anything, Galen wants to understand. There's a piece of code missing here, a social construct he can't quite see. When someone smiles, it usually means they are friendly. When someone says something nice to another person, usually it's a kindness. This...this didn't feel like that.

"Oh, Galen. Galen. Her father is head of the architecture division."

The puzzle slowly unravels and Galen isn't sure he enjoys what it's revealing. "Do you not like her?"

Orson smirks at a few more people as they pass them by. He's not relinquished his hold on Galen, arm still lazily slung about him. Oddly possessive. "Of course not, she's an utter knob." 

So, the entire scene had been a lie. A blatant manipulation. Galen finds himself examining every interaction he's seen Orson have and is disturbed to realize the Orson acts in a similar manner to many people. A wide smirk that doesn't quite feel real, cheerful words meant to stroke an ego, paying too much attention to the words being spoken by a higher up, as if to be seen as an adoring fan. Swallowing thickly, Galen comes to the conclusion that his best friend is a cunning social manipulator.

So cunning that Galen never saw it. So cunning that no one else sees it either, as it were. For a moment, it concerns him, makes him feel terrible about himself. His nerves race and his heart beats unevenly. Something akin to fear and sadness soak him through like a downpour. A monsoon of anxiety.

"Do you even like me?" Galen shouldn't ask the words, because now he's afraid of the answer. 

A odd noise resounds in Orson's chest and he quickly yanks Galen into a dark hallway. Pressing him up against one of the walls, Orson peers into Galen's face. One hand is clutching Galen's hip, the other his shoulder. "What sort of asinine question is that? What the hell, Galen."

Keeping his breathing steady, feeling that strange, emotional hurt, Galen rasps thickly, "You lied to that girl. It was easy for you, like breathing. I'm not...there's nothing special about me. There's no reason to...waste your time with me."

Orson seems to deflate at his words, trying to dissect where this is coming from, walking himself through the prior scene. Anger comes to his gaze again, voice rising. His temper is easy to provoke. "You think I don't care about you, even after all these _fucking_ years?"

"I don't know what to think. But I know that I have nothing to offer you." It's true. Galen has nothing but his mind. He's not politically savvy. He doesn't have an important father to leverage. He has no status. 

Orson isn't smiling, his mouth set firmly. The mask from earlier is gone. He's close now, so close that Galen can smell his cologne, familiar, comforting. He's warm as he leans forward to whisper in Galen's ear, "Is that so? Maybe that's your charm. Try this on for size, farmboy. You're _irreplaceable_. Analyze that in your spare time and tell me that it means I care not for you."

With those words, Orson steps away from Galen, leaving him breathless against the wall, alone in the darkened, empty hall. 

* * *

Orson has always been a pursuer, in Galen’s view. He pursues connections. Power. Fame. He pursues people that he believes will give him a better advantage.

It's almost a laugh that Galen's doesn’t realize when he’s the one being pursued.

Touches begin to linger, along with penetrating gazes. Orson spends more time in Galen’s room, alone with him instead of out clubbing and picking up strangers to warm his bed at night.

One evening, they're both sitting on Galen’s bed. Galen's working through an algorithm on his datapad and Orson is sipping something from his flask. Sipping a little harder than usual, but Galen isn’t going to question it.

Orson seems a little unsure of himself, perhaps a little lost, so Galen tries to distract him. “This is the algorithm you need to learn better, Orson. I’ve noticed from your exams this is the concept that stumps you the most-”

But Orson isn’t looking at the datapad. He’s staring at Galen’s mouth. Before Galen can even understand why that is, he’s being pushed back on the bed, finding himself staring up into dilated eyes.

A mouth touches his, softly at first, seeking. Orson handles him gently, as if afraid of scaring him away. Galen trembles, even as a strange heat, an odd need fills him. “What are you doing?”

“What does it feel like?” A body presses against Galen’s, warm and hard. Lips return a little harder, a tongue gently tracing the seam of Galen's mouth. 

Hips brush against his and Galen hears an embarrassing noise slip from his lips. It feels good, having friction against the part of him that is quickly swelling, becoming stiff. He apologizes against Orson's soft lips, realizing that Orson can feel it, can feel his inappropriate arousal.

A slight grin shapes that wicked mouth. “You would apologize, wouldn’t you?” He rocks his hips into Galen’s again with purpose, picking up a rhythm, creating a delicious friction. Watching every shift in expression on Galen's face intently, devouring his emotions. “Shh…it’s okay. I’ve got you. Just, let me make you feel good, Galen.”

And, he _does_.

The room fills with sounds of their rough panting. The sounds Galen makes as Orson teaches him what feels good, guides him through this new facet of their relationship. Listens to Orson croon hotly in his ear as they rub their stiff members together, slick with precum, euphoria overtaking Galen in a way it never has. Orson surrounds him in a flurry of seeking hands and an exploring mouth. His lips grin against Galen's flesh, smug. Pleased. 

“Is…is this common for friends to do?” Galen asks later, his heart still racing. Full of emotion, full of warmth towards his best friend. Heart brimming with wonder. He never imagined relationships could be like this. 

Orson is eyeing the bruise he’s left on Galen’s throat. He chuckles. “I thought it was obvious. I want you to be more than my friend, Galen.”  
  
In the years that follow, Galen finds himself being the sole occupant of Orson's bed. 

* * *

  
“You’re leaving me for some damned crystals. Why am I not surprised by this, Galen?”

Dismay rings clear in Orson’s voice. There, hidden under his typical, arrogant bravado. As Galen’s packing his few belongings for what he expects to be a very long expedition, Galen sighs heavily. He turns his head to see Orson, sitting in his fine clothes on their shared bed.

His glittering blue eyes are narrowed, mouth sullen.

“This is what I have trained for, Orson. You know this.” Galen has a steady voice, a calm expression. These things never seem to ease Orson, not when he’s working himself into a frenzy of irritation. Orson has a tendency to try and force his way, always has.

“This is ridiculous, Galen.” Orson stands up, stalking around the room, handsome in his new uniform. “If you need a job so terribly, you can work for me. I’ll make a role. It will allow you to-”

“Stay close?” Galen says this with a wry smile.

The other man goes still, waiting with a certain sliver of hope in his eyes. He wants Galen to stay, more than anything, but what he doesn’t know is that Galen cannot. He can’t. He's leaving, but he’s leaving what they have behind. He can’t do that if he stays.

They are not what they once were. Galen has watched the way that Orson sinks his claws into any political rival, gains favor with anyone he believes can pull him forward. His ambition is endless, suffocating. The predatory expression in his gaze scares Galen, sometimes. Orson is the type of man that will do anything for power.

Galen isn’t sure he can watch his oldest friend, his lover, tear his soul into pieces in his quest for glory. He doesn’t want to watch what Orson is so desperate to become.

“No, Orson,” he breathes out slowly, watching hope fade in those pale eyes. “This is what I want. This is _my dream_. The kyber crystals…they are my passion. We have our own goals and they do not collide.”

A frown shapes Orson’s face, shadowed by the waning daylight. It makes him look dangerous. “How can you be so sure our goals are not in line, Galen?” His voice begins to rise, precariously. “ _How can you_ -”

Galen stands up from his packing and quickly goes to enfold the other man into his arms, his attempt to quell the shouting and ranting he knows is on the horizon. “Because I know you, Orson. That’s how I know.”

Orson is shuddering in his arms, trying to quell his wild, fiery emotions. Galen holds him tighter, waits for him to accept the inevitable.

“Who is going to keep me out of trouble?” Orson sounds defeated. His fingers are digging into Galen's spine, at odds with his next words, uttered nastily. "I'm not waiting for you."

Galen gives him a stiff smile, one that barely shifts his face. “You've never been one to be alone long, Orson. I've accepted that.”  
  


* * *

  
Lyra is a spectacular guide on Espinar and her help with Galen’s crew is immeasurable. He couldn’t ask for a better resource on his expedition for the rare kyber crystals.

Not only is she competent, but she’s bright, electric. She falls into stride beside Galen without a thought, asks him intrigued questions, even gives him answers that surprise him. Lyra doesn’t think he’s odd for being a pacifist, when subjects of war and military research come up in conversations between the crew. “It’s commendable,” she says instead, meeting his elusive gaze. “You stand for something worthy.”

When she smiles, he feels his heart beat a little faster in his chest. It takes him a certain amount of time to realize that perhaps he's feeling something for her; and that scares him. What does he know about love and relationships, aside from what he has barely experienced already? She's so different...so other. Words never come to Galen easy and he's certain that sometimes he offends her with his long silences and cold demeanor. He needs time to process he feelings and he doesn't even realize how lucky he is that she's patient. 

She’s not flashy and painfully-charismatic like Orson Krennic, but she’s got soft, soulful eyes and pretty lips. Hair as deep and dark as a chocolate bar. Her smiles are rare, but they are always true. Always honest.

Nothing about her is false. He cannot say the same for his longtime companion, who still occupies his thoughts.

Over a campfire one night, she sits next to him, even as others tuck in to bed. Her thigh presses against his and Galen wonders if he’s imagining her interest in him. A single strand of hair falls over her face, charming. He finds so much about her charming, delicate.

Her voice is musical. “You’re always so serious, when you stare into the flame. Who are you thinking about?”

Galen admires how perceptive she is and wonders how she reads him so well. “Who is to say I am thinking about anyone?”

Those deep eyes stare into his, as if the galaxy can be found in their depths. “Because, Galen. I know what you look like when you’re thinking of kyber crystals and this is not it. Did you leave someone behind?”

His throat tightens with emotion. To hear the words, spoken as such. It uncovers something inside of him, realizing the pain he must have caused Orson. “I did.”

She says nothing more and that’s another part of her that he is grateful for. She knows when to stop talking. She doesn’t rant and rave, or press aggressively to get an answer she’d rather hear. Instead, she holds his large hand in hers as they sit in companionable silence in front of the fire.

She eases her way into his solitude. Her kindness and her bright heart.

By the end of the expedition, she’s in his bed more often than not. Eventually, by the end of the six months, he stops comparing her to a man she is nothing like.

He asks her to marry him and it’s a simple affair, held on Coruscant. 

Lyra Erso is a lovely, glowing bride. Galen couldn’t be prouder to have her as his.  
  


* * *

  
  
They go on more expeditions together, fueled by their love of knowledge and adventure. It’s a relatively uneventful affair until war strikes hard. When Separatists take control of Vallt, he and his pregnant wife are imprisoned.

It’s a year before they are rescued, traded for by none other than the very person who has always come to his defense.

Lieutenant Commander Orson Krennic.

When Galen sees him, this proud figure waiting at the pickup location, his heart leaps. It has been so long since he last saw his oldest friend. His first friend. The rush of emotion that comes with seeing him is almost unexpected and Galen feels overwhelmed. For a moment, he can't breathe when those familiar eyes land on him.

“Galen,” Orson grins softly. His eyes travel over Galen’s body, the sorry state he’s in. Galen can feel the way those eyes search for injury, protective. Orson steps closer, makes as if to embrace him, but something makes him pause.

He’s looking over Galen’s broad shoulder, something unreadable on his face.

A small, sinking feeling grows inside of Galen. He knows, without looking, what Orson is staring at with that shadowed expression.

Lyra and baby Jyn.

For the first time, Orson does not embrace Galen. Instead, he steps backward, looking suddenly out of place, as if his confidence has suddenly been robbed. Then, after a moment, he smirks, making Galen feel even worse.

“Someone’s been busy, haven’t they?” Orson’s words sound cheerful.

They aren’t.  
  


* * *

  
Lyra doesn’t like Orson Krennic.

To be utterly, terribly honest, Galen never thought she would. Two very different souls, two very different personalities. Two very different views on morality. Lyra feels very strongly about what is right and what isn’t, has her malcontent with the current political scheme of things. She doesn’t have ambitions for greatness; she only wants Galen safe and in her arms. She wants him happy and free to research what he wants, not because he feels in debt to Orson Krennic.

_He remembers the night he told Lyra about his past with Orson, shortly after Orson saved them from terrible captivity in the Vallt security complex. He doesn't tell her everything. “He’s my oldest friend,” he’d told her, “My deepest confidant.”_

_Leaving it at that made it sound so utterly simple. Sterile. Without volatile emotion._

_“I’ve heard of him,” she’d replied with great reserve. Hiding her true feelings on the matter to spare Galen._

_He’d sensed that in her, naturally, always working hard to see the subtle shifts in those around him. His analytical mind always working overtime to understand the social cues required of him. “You make him sound rather infamous, my love.”_

_Those lips of hers, the ones he loves against his own, went ever tighter at his words. “I’ve heard of his ambitions. He climbs the ranks without a care for those he steps on. He views those that have less than him as inferior. He’s a cunning snake.” She had seen the guilt and remorse on Galen’s face and her expression softened sadly. She reached for his hand, holding it gently. “Oh, Galen. You have such a kind heart. I’ll do my best to…be nice to the man. For you. I know you value your long friendship with him.”_

Galen has no doubt that Lyra _tried_ to do as she said that night. She didn’t intend to lie, he’s certain.

She hadn’t been completely wrong about Orson, as it were. Galen isn’t blind.

Orson Krennic has this way about him, elegant, pristine. Slight smiles with varying degrees of meaning. Galen knows them all, after all the many years they’ve spent together, growing up in the program and even after. Galen knows that Orson’s soft, almost invisible grin is genuine, because Orson is rarely aware of it even shaping his lips. That’s what makes it _real_.

Galen is deeply familiar with the smirk, the one Orson saves for people he’s speaking down to, full of derision and his gigantic ego, the ego that always wants to be fed.

To say he liked seeing that side of Orson would be a lie. There are things about him that Galen does not find admirable, things that only came to light as they aged into men.

Galen also knows the very wide smile, with perfectly straight teeth, the smile that doesn’t touch blue eyes. This is the smile Orson saves for people he _hates_. This expression, Galen has long dissected, is an expression that Orson forces onto his face like a veneer of civility when speaking to a rival officer, to appear like he means no ill-will.

So, truly, he cannot blame Lyra for her misgivings. Orson Krennic is not an easy man to get along with, but he’s been Galen Erso’s steady companion for decades. Sometimes, he finds himself wondering why Orson _chose_ him.

A lowly farmboy from a backwater planet. Shy. Socially awkward. A recluse. A _genius_.

The answer is usually cynical and unpleasant. Galen is no fool. Regardless, he also believes their relationship morphed into something Orson did not expect, something he didn’t anticipate in his wickedly calculating mind. There’s a complex part of their relationship that Galen has been waiting to tell Lyra about, at the right time.

There’s never been the right time, unfortunately, not when there’s research consuming his life.

Not when the man in question is still an aching hole in Galen’s chest, no matter how hard he’s worked to replace him with something far more pure. Something kind and good. Everything Orson is _not_.

Orson Krennic is well-bred and cultured to the point of being _oh so_ hard to touch. A cold and distant star, perfect in every way that counts. Imperfect in the ways that cut the most.

 _He let me touch him,_ Galen’s traitorous, unfaithful thoughts remind him, followed by heaps of guilt. _He’d probably still let me touch him. Even after all this time. He wouldn’t say no._

When the day comes, the first time Galen invites Orson over to truly spend time with his family, his old friend nearly gives it all away. Orson gives Lyra a quick once over as they shake hands, his eyes landing on Galen briefly with a look that seems to say, _this is who you’ve replaced me with?_

Oh, he’s spiteful.

 _Yes,_ Galen tries to relay with a calm expression on his face, even though his heart is racing. _I love her and she loves me._

Orson Krennic huffs out a small, choked laugh, hiding his hurt before shifting his full attention to Lyra once more. “Lyra. Thank you for the invite. I know we haven’t had a chance to properly get to know each other, but I’m sure that will change. I’ve heard _so much_ about you.”

He hasn’t.

Lyra doesn’t believe any of it, clearly, she’s already got her impression of Orson Krennic and she thinks he’s a serpent. “And I you, Orson. You certainly keep my husband busy with the project you’re overseeing. I hope you intend to allow him some time away from his research soon. I’d like him home a bit more. I worry for his wellbeing.”

Orson smiles big, bright and wide. “ _Well_. I’m not sure I can spare him any time soon, Lyra. I’ll take it into consideration. For _your_ sake.” Full of sharp teeth and wickedness and Galen feels his stomach turn in dread.

Orson doesn’t like Galen’s wife. He doesn’t like Lyra and that’s _dangerous_.  
  


* * *

Galen soon finds that working for Orson isn't the worst thing that could have ever happened to him. In fact, Orson is very keen for Galen to unlock the power of the kyber crystals. Where the man once felt disdain towards Galen's love of the rare crystals, now he encourages him to take his research a step further. There's a small distance between them, something that pains Galen to acknowledge. Their companionship is...not quite the same. Orson is holding back and it worries Galen that perhaps Orson has not quite let him go, despite all these years. Despite how they've both grown and changed with the passing of time.

Orson, perhaps, does not know how to let them just be friends. He never oversteps the boundaries that Galen has, and he tries to hide the yearning in his gaze. Galen wishes it were simple, but its not. He wishes he could be hugged by Orson and not feel the underlying expectation that they resume their relationship. 

"I don't trust him," Lyra says flatly. "Why do they need the power of the crystals, Galen? What is the purpose? He's not telling you everything about this project of his."

"You just don't like him, Lyra. It doesn't mean he's not trustworthy." Galen assures her. He has no doubts about his work; he's being paid to do what he loves and he's working for his oldest friend. 

"You don't see what I see in him."

Galen sighs, weary of this old conversation. "I suppose I don't."

Though Galen and Orson spend most of their time together at work, they don't spend much of their free time together. Besides, Galen has seen that Orson doesn't want for company. 

He's seen and heard of the ever rotating door that Orson has. Late night partners coming and going. 

No, Orson doesn't know how to be alone. Galen wishes it didn't cause his heart to ache. 

* * *

  
  
“You’ve slept with him. _Before_.”

She says it so casually that Galen almost doesn’t register her words. The numbers on his datapad are spinning through his mind, calculations, kyber crystals and energy. All merging together. He rights his thoughts, settles them. Focuses on her. “Lyra, what-”

Across the room, she’s wiping some food off of four-year-old Jyn’s face with a napkin, looking completely nonchalant. Their condo is otherwise quiet. He realizes she said it to see his reaction and Galen feels caught. “You heard me, Galen.” Her voice isn’t accusing, not quite. More so disappointed and Galen can’t stand to hear that note in her tone.

He never wants to be a disappointment to her.

Lyra taps Jyn on the bum softly and whispers, “Go play with your toys, dear.” This leaves them mostly alone, a certain tension thick in the air.

Galen remains sitting, his datapad balanced on his lap. He doesn’t know what to say, so he stays quiet, waiting to see where Lyra will take this conversation. _I should have told her. I should have explained._

“He’s an awful jealous bastard, your old friend.” Her arms are crossed over her chest, dark eyes piercing. Bitterness is raw in her tone, like acid. “He offered me a job for a new cave survey. On a remote planet, where I won’t be able to reach you. He’s trying to get me out of the way and I’m surprised it took him this long to try his hand at it.”

 _Oh, this_. He almost feels relief. It’s about the employment offer.

Galen tuts softly. “I had heard about the job that he extended to you. It’s an honor, Lyra. He only wants the best working on his projects, you know how he is. You’re looking much too deep into things, I think.”

Her face doesn’t shift. “But, I’m _not_ , Galen. Krennic doesn’t like me and he never has. He didn’t choose me because he values my work. He chose me because I’m competent and I’m currently in his way. You are far too trusting of him.”

Face blank, Galen tries to analyze the best way to navigate this conversation. He tries to remain logical. “It will be good for your career, to take this job on. If it’s what you want, my dear. This isn’t nefarious.”

Orson knows better than to try and do something as lowly as separating Galen from Lyra. He wouldn't. It isn't something his longtime companion has time to even plot over, let alone execute on. Orson Krennic is far too busy furthering his career and facing off against Tarkin for political favor. He's out late at events, working his way through a slew of bedmates, in between currying favor. He wouldn't set his sights on Lyra. Getting her out of the way can't even be a blip on his busy radar.

 _Are you so sure about that?_ Galen pushes the thought away.

The air is rife with hurt, like needles pricking the skin repeatedly. “Tell me the truth, Galen.” Her voice is barely there. “If you tell me you’ve never slept with him, _ever_ , I’ll believe you, but you must tell me the truth now. No more hiding. He’s gunning for me and I have the right to know why. He looks at me like I've stolen something from him and I've never understood _why_.”

It feels as though the world has dropped out from under Galen’s feet, crumbling into a maelstrom of chaos. The truth is ugly and painful and he would have wished to spare her this. Running a shaking hand over his face, Galen clenches his jaw, fighting down old wounds.

Orson Krennic is a wound that never heals.

He can’t form the words. He can’t say them. His tongue is clumsy and won’t work and Galen makes a pained noise in his throat, eyes still hidden behind his hand. He can’t deny it.

_{a perfectly cultured voice, rasping, ‘Say you’re mine, please, Galen, say it’}_

Galen’s body feels dead for a horrid moment even though his heart still beats in time to the agonized labors of his lungs.

“It’s true then,” Lyra states, sounding oddly relieved, as if the truth has set something free inside of her. “That’s why he’s so unwilling to let you leave his project. It’s why he can barely stand to be in the same room as me. I just couldn’t figure him out, what his problem was, I thought through every option, but now it makes _sense_ -”

“Lyra. He is my past, there is nothing between us anymore. It ended long ago. Before you.”

She spasms, as if wanting to tear her own ears off. “You are not his past! Can’t you see that? You are his past, present, and future! For so brilliant a man, you are terribly blind to human emotion.” Pacing now, like a tiger in a cage, Lyra hugs herself, thinking. “I’m taking her with me, Galen.” Her words are solemn, dark eyes full of pain.

Galen doesn’t understand; what is this? She’s taking the cave survey assignment after all? He yearns for the right words to say, to settle her, to put her at ease. He’s never…never been perfect with words.

“Lyra, it’s a three-month excursion, you can certainly leave Jyn with me, why-”

Running her hand down the side of his face, Lyra studies him. She brushes her lips against his mouth softly, like a ghost and Galen leans into her, wanting her comfort. Resting her forehead against his, Lyra whispers thickly, “Please be mine when I return.”

Quickly, as if needing to contain her emotions, Lyra steps away from him, taking her beloved warmth with her, leaving Galen feeling cold and alone. He wants to tell her she has nothing to worry about, that he ended that aspect of his relationship with Orson a very long time ago. He wants to ease her mind, for her goals are Galen’s and they are one.

That night, he finds her in bed early, as if in mourning. He crawls under the sheets, shedding his clothes, pressing himself against her slight form. She’s so small under him and her sweet gasps heat him as he tastes her.

The way she comes apart around him, his member deep inside her sweet body. He tells her, afterwards, “You know I love you, Lyra.

“And I love you.” She bites her lips to keep from saying, _and so does he.  
  
_

* * *

  
  
Lyra leaves with Jyn on the three-month excursion, leaving Galen’s heart heavy.

He misses them terribly and for a moment, he feels bitterness towards his old friend, who likely wrought this via selfish means.

Orson doesn’t approach him for days, as if giving Galen space. That’s the biggest tip off Galen gets, that none of this was done out of good intentions.  
  


* * *

  
When Orson finally slinks around like a tomcat, he doesn’t play his hand immediately. Galen keeps his face expressionless, through it all, through these odds motions Orson keeps going through. The times he leans over Galen’s shoulder, to comment snidely on his calculations, all while placing his hand warmly on the nape of his neck.

The weight, the heat of that palm. The clench of those fingers. Coveting. Hungry for more. Galen feels his heartrate speed past what is normal for resting, though he tries to dismiss his body and its unfaithful reactions to the man beside him.

Sometimes, Orson takes to complimenting new findings with a certain warmth in his tone, slyly saying, “You’re simply a _star_ , Galen. This project is nothing without you.”

His blue eyes, holding a certain ambitious desire in them. Bold. No longer does he look away from Galen, no longer does he try to hide his thoughts. Galen knows what he’s playing for. He knows what Orson wants.

He just wishes it wasn’t so. He's torn, because he has his own secret desires that he fights against. 

It only takes two weeks before Orson invites Galen over for dinner. “It’ll be like the old times,” he says with that soft grin, eyes showing a hint of vulnerability that Galen hasn’t seen in him for so long.

The affair is almost civilized and proper. They drink and eat a fabulous meal, discussing findings and avoiding politics, because they never agree and Orson is very aggressive about what he believes in. Orson grins at him, his lips on the edge of his whiskey glass as he drinks.

Those eyes are full of things that Galen doesn’t want to acknowledge. Shouldn't acknowledge. He's being pursued again, it seems.

They discuss safer things, like the project and architecture. Galen avoids mentioning Lyra at all costs.

Hours pass and the sun begins to sink. Galen finds himself swayed, eased into happiness. A certain euphoria. It feels like he has his friend back, like they can sit all night and discuss their passions, their work, their dreams. In truth, Galen has missed Orson. He’s missed their companionship.

He’s the first friend he ever had. The only one, until Lyra.

As it grows dark, the liquor holds its power over them. Galen feels a fuzzy warmth, his long limbs lazy and heavy. As he stands unsteadily, he looks down at Orson, seeing the slighter man looking up at him, mouth partially open. An attractive flush on his cheeks. It's a look that makes Galen’s throat tighten, only a bit.

“It’s late, Orson. I’m afraid it’s time for me to retire home.”

“Stay.” The word comes out so fast, as if perfectly planned. Then, the sly begging comes, wisps of vulnerability in the undertone. “Come to bed with me, Galen.”

Galen inhales sharply, feeling his groin tighten. His brow furrows slightly as he tries to hide his worry. This was a trap indeed.

Seeing Galen’s reservations, Orson stands up carefully, making his way into Galen’s space. A hand falls to Galen’s hip, holding and little else. That vulnerability is there, the vulnerability Orson shows no one else. This is something private for Galen alone. “Please. No one has to know. _Lyra doesn’t have to know_.” 

It’s a slight betrayal, though Galen is almost dismayed to find that he expected this. Perhaps he is a weak man after all, a disappointment to his wife. She knew all along, all while Galen tried to pretend this didn’t exist, waiting under the surface.

“Lyra was right.” The consternation, the hurt coursing through Galen is like a storm, a sea overtaking him. “You sent her away on purpose, for your own benefit.” His voice goes darker. “Orson, we agreed this could not go on-”

Orson has always been aggressive, bold. Fueled by passion and a need for control. Though Galen is the larger man, Orson pushes him back, down onto the long couch that must cost a small fortune. With Galen sprawled, Orson climbs over him, straddling him. Pinning him down.

His words are like a storm, tearing out of his lungs with a fury, face flushed. “ _I never agreed_!” Those familiar lips, sneering, deep blue eyes spitting fire. “I never agreed to watch you shove someone else in my kriffing face, Galen. I _did no such_ thing.”

In the face of such emotion, such bright fury, Galen can only remain cool. Distant. He can not get caught up in this. “I fell in love with her, Orson.”

“No, you sophomoric farmboy. Get it _right_.” Orson’s voice is growling, teeth bared, reminding Galen of what they feel like, buried in his throat. “You _left_ me and found _her_ on Espinar during your damned excursion. Then, as if that wasn't enough, you _married_ the kriffing harpy and knocked her up!”

To say anything in response would be to incite violence and Galen knows it. Orson is like a live wire, crackling with jealous rage. 

Having him this close is agony. A type of agony that burns and sings with desire and sorrow, a need to be closer. Galen fights himself, tries to remind himself that Orson is not the boy he used to be, he’s never been kind, he’s not out for the greater good. He’s ambitious. Power-hungry. He’s used Galen more times than Galen can count.

Yet, at the end of it all he can’t let him go.

“ _How_ could you do that to me?” Orson’s words are cracked, vulnerable. Accusing. “I would have given you anything.”

Reaching upward, feeling the fast, angry way Orson is breathing, Galen runs his hand through Orson’s hair. Galen marvels that it feels the same as it always has, soft and silky. “Orson…” he breathes out soothingly, feeling the way his former lover stiffens, trying to pull away. Tightening the muscles in his arm, Galen refuses to let the other man escape. Instead, he pulls him closer, even though he should be letting him go. “I know you would have. But, that was a long time ago, my friend. Has time not healed such wounds?”

Orson slowly relaxes his body, looking only moderately less murderous. He sits so that he’s straddling Galen’s waist, looking down at him with hooded eyes. Galen allows himself to holds his hips. He doesn’t allow himself to look between Orson’s thighs, to see if he’s swollen like Galen is.

“You’re ruining my hate, Galen,” he says sullenly, eyes on Galen’s mouth. “I loathe that. How do you do it?”

“Years of practice, I suppose,” Galen drawls quietly.

They stare at each other for silent minutes, deep into each other’s eyes. Galen knows he needs to leave, he shouldn’t have put himself in this position, but he’s far to weak. He’s missed Orson, being looked at like this by him.

Orson Krennic looks at Galen like he’d devour him, if that were an option.

Like he’d do just about anything to _own_ Galen.

He shifts his hips against Galen’s, causing heat to flash in Galen’s belly, unwarranted. 

Orson adopts his typical arrogance. His dominance, commanding huskily, “Kiss me, Galen. Show me what those years of practice have bought me.” He leans down, crowding around Galen, but at the last minute, Galen turns his head away, closing his eyes against the pain this is going to cause.

Lips brush the corner of his mouth before disappearing.

“No? You won’t?” Orson sounds deadly again, that soft tone full of hatred and disbelief. 

“I’m married, Orson. This can’t happen. I won’t betray Ly-”

A hand covers his mouth harshly and Orson’s nostrils flare, eyes a vivid blue. “Don’t you say that name. I’m not interested in your excuses.” Orson leans down then, burying his face in Galen’s neck, teeth sinking into his flesh.

Galen groans, hands spasming on Orson’s hips. The rush of desire that races through him cannot be denied, feeling that aggressive, hateful mouth claiming his flesh once more. Orson’s hand is in Galen’s mussed hair, holding him in place as he sucks a hard mark onto his throat, tongue and teeth working in tandem.

His member swells painfully, brushing up against Orson’s, a bulge he can feel through their clothes. Desire rides his body in a wave, crashing, untamable. When Galen moans, Orson makes a hungry, desperate sort of noise in response. Eager, the way his hips rock into his, pinning him to the couch with a need that can’t be held back.

They strain against each other until they’re both panting desperately, strung out on lust. Ecstasy builds tight in Galen's groin, aching to release as he allows Orson to rut against him. It's an act that Galen has always enjoyed, bearing witness to Orson coming undone with lust for him. The way Orson imitates the way he would move inside of Galen, swift and deep. His desperate noises, the ones that Galen relishes. 

Orson slides downward, tearing open Galen’s trousers with a certain aggressiveness that isn’t surprising in the least. He takes a moment to gaze at Galen's thick, straining sex. Then, wordlessly he swallows Galen whole, suckling hungrily at his aching member. He groans around it, his tongue doing terrible, wonderous things, causing Galen's eyes to nearly roll in his skull, listening to the way Orson takes his own pleasure sucking Galen dry.

“Orson, stop…” It sounds weak, even to his own ears. "We need... _ah_...to stop..."

Instead of stopping, Orson swallows, his throat clenching and working in a way that sends Galen into a spiral of madness and need.

Oh, how had Galen forgotten this? How had he forgotten what this felt like, with Orson? The raw passion and possessiveness, the desperate way Orson tries to consume him, to be the best, to stake his claim in Galen’s life with every touch.

He tries to tell himself that he isn’t touching Orson. He isn’t reciprocating. This is being done _to_ him.

It doesn’t make it right and guilt eats at Galen, like a gnawing beast.

As if sensing he isn’t going to be getting anything else out of Galen, Orson opens his own slacks and begins to fist his own erect member, stroking hard and hatefully. Orson's cock is wet, his slit drooling steadily. His desire is clear, the vast dilation of his pupils as he alternates his gaze between Galen’s face and cock.

“I missed how you taste. Fuck, Galen, you look as wrecked as always.”

He nuzzles between Galen's thighs and inhales, sending sparks of shameful pleasure through Galen. 

_I’ve missed your fire,_ Galen thinks as he closes his eyes. _Your determination._

Warm lips wrap around his sack, playing with his sensitive testicles. Galen shudders, shoving a fist in his mouth, trying to stifle his cries of passion. Sounds that shouldn’t be for Orson. Not anymore. That devious, lying tongue shifts just behind his sack, licking at his entrance, causing Galen to arch his back in shame.

Oh, how he wants Orson. How simple it was for the other man to reduce him to this mess, even after all this time. Shame is going to be his companion forever. How will he ever look at Lyra again?

Orson purrs, licking, sucking, as if it’s a tasty treat that he’s missed having. His small, sloppy noises, vulnerable, give Galen almost more pleasure than the acts being committed. He feels boneless, powerless under this assault of lust. Worse is the adoration Galen feels swell inside of him, feeling so close to his longtime companion, close like they haven't been in years.

When Orson swallows Galen’s swollen sex once more, the act doesn’t last long, not when his fingers work their way inside of Galen at the same time, pressing. With a strangled shout, Galen climaxes hard, face and ears bright red from exertion and passion. His cock throbs, like his heartbeat, and he thinks of how he’s filling Orson’s belly with seed, the way Orson used to fill him.

Sitting up, cradled between Galen’s long legs, Orson takes himself in hand again, his hips rocking in time to his rough strokes. Galen admires his cock, thick and red, very wet with desire leaking from his slit. He listens to Orson’s rough panting as he languishes on the couch, feeling sated, his cock resting against his thigh, wet and shiny. Tries to ignore the guilt scratching at his mind. 

Orson is beautiful. Always has been. A boy of privilege, who chose a lowly farmboy to be his companion. Sleek, cultured, fierce and proud. The tilt of his head and the arrogance written on his mouth. None of it is diminished, even in this moment as he tries to stroke himself to completion on top of Galen.

He watches Orson, gazes intently as Orson bites his bruised lower lip, cock straining in his grasp. Pleasuring himself with determination. 

Those hooded eyes open and catch Galen in the act. “ _What?”_ The biting tone is almost humorous. “See something… _ah_ …mm…interesting?”

“What do you need, Orson?” Galen figures something will help tip him over the edge and he might as well ask. He’s not a telepath. 

The other man pauses, eyes opening fully. There’s pain there, need. “I need you to be mine.”

“I’m here.” Simple. The truth. It isn't the answer he's looking for and they both know it. 

Orson shifts over him, angling his hips. 

“I’m so jealous. I’m so tired of being jealous of her,” Orson says harshly, rubbing his swollen tip against Galen’s puckered entrance. His pale eyes dance with envy and possessiveness. “I want you all to myself.”

Galen’s heart aches at those words. His belly fills with warmth. _Oh, Orson._

Orson's cock is heavy against him, hot. Pressing and stroking his puckered entrance, making Galen moan with need. He misses this, being filled with Orson's hot length, listening to his filthy mouth hissing all sorts of awful while he ruts into Galen from behind. Galen's cock jumps with renewed interest, remembering how they once were, how it was back in the day when he lived with Orson, when it was the two of them.

He comes back to reality when the blunt head of Orson’s member begins to press forward, trying to sheath himself inside of Galen. To make them one again, lost to their own desires, in their own little world.

Taking in a deep breath, Galen shifts his hips away. It's the hardest thing he's ever done. He gently pushes Orson back, just enough so that his meaning is clear. “No, Orson.”

Those dilated pupils seem to shrink as Orson stares at him in dismay. “You won’t let me have you? Dammit, Galen. You self-righteous wretch. _Dammit_.” There’s so much emotion in those few, inelegant words and Galen feels remorse instantly, though his mind remains unchanged. Orson hisses something under his breath that sounds like _curse that woman to hell,_ but Galen can't quite be sure. 

In the end, he helps Orson reach his messy climax. He covers Orson’s hand with his own and they both sit, grunting, sweating as they stroke him to completion, his release coming heavy and thick over their hands. Making a hungry noise, Orson tries to reach under Galen, tries to push some of his seed into him.

Galen moves away. This was a terrible mistake and now that his mind has caught up to the situation, he feels a crushing shame hovering over him. An elephant on his chest, pressing down on him. He needs to flee.

“Stay.” The word is sad, lonely.

Hating everything, Galen rights himself and does not look back as he leaves the lovely condo. “I won’t.”

_I could, but I won’t and he knows the difference. I will not choose him.  
  
_

* * *

_  
  
_He doesn’t allow himself to see Orson alone again, a fact that makes Orson bitter and abrasive. His plot did not go as planned, it seems. Orson is always plotting and Galen would rather be left to his own devices.

Galen doesn’t trust himself and he sure as hell doesn’t trust Orson. This backwards shift in their relationship _hurts_.

When Lyra returns, he greets her like she’s the only thing in the world that matters. _She is_. Lyra and Jyn. His girls. His love and his Stardust.

Orson distances himself. Becomes the cold and hot overseer of the project that so many of them are working on day and night. His infamous temper flares often, his tongue sharp. Galen has heard whispers that Lyra and Orson had it out over data from the cave survey excursion. Something about Lyra willfully losing data, just to spite him. 

It must be true, some part of it, because the tension between Orson and Lyra is like a thick blanket of smog. Like gasoline waiting to be ignited by a simple spark. Unbearable, hateful. Now, every time he sees Orson, he feels a hole inside of him open up, full of shameful desire and self-loathing. He's not touched him, not since that blissful night and he hates that some part of him wants it again. He hates that Orson knows it, too. The way he almost reaches out to touch Galen, to pat him on the shoulder with a grin, but holds himself back at the last minute. The strange yearning. The way Galen finds those blue eyes on him sometimes, when Orson thinks Galen is lost in his work.

"Things aren't supposed to be like this, Galen," Orson says one day, looking solemn. 

Galen doesn't disagree nor does he agree. 

Then everything goes to hell, the deepest pit of black that there could ever be. Galen finds out about the Death Star. He finds out what it is _going to be used for_. A tool of mass destruction, of war. Everything Galen stands against. This betrayal is suffocating, strangling him like a noose. Orson...Orson knew all along, naturally. He knew Galen would have never agreed to help on the project, had he known its cruel intent. Orson is good at omitting the truth. Hurt tastes bitter on Galen's tongue.

He's been used. To build something, a horrid monstrosity. 

"What will we do?" Lyra asks him one night, quiet in their home. Afraid. Angry for Galen. 

"We run. I cannot complete this work." Galen runs a hand through her dark hair, inhaling the scent of her. Familiar, beloved.

She leans into him, her hand at his chest, feeling his heartbeat. "He won't let you go."

He closes his eyes, hears the words she doesn't say aloud. _'I warned you about him, Galen. I'm sorry he's hurt you, love.'_

Resolute, voice thick, Galen replies, "He has no choice this time."

So, they flee into exile, hoping to never be found.  
  


* * *

  
  
Orson Krennic finds them. _Eventually_. It has to be fate. Twisted and terrible. He arrives on their farm, looking splendid in white, his cape billowing out about him with a certain aura of power. He looks regal, proud, backed by his elite squadron of guards. The epitome of an Imperial Officer.

Fate is always mocking Galen.

He tries to lie, tries to protect Lyra and Jyn. Sadly, Orson knows him far too well. Has always known him. Lying is futile, because Galen is simply terrible at the act. He isn’t wired that way, unlike Orson. Sly Orson, who is ever artful at _playing_ sympathetic, trying to pull all the right strings.

Unfortunately for the other man, Galen can tell when Orson is being fake. Orson isn’t feeling sympathetic, no. He’s angry, it’s written in the lines of his face, blazing in his lovely sky-blue eyes, glaring out from under his military cap. He wants to drag Galen back, wants to dig his fingers in like the claws of some beast.

It’s a terrible tragedy that Galen’s plan to protect his family doesn’t play out as it should have. Lyra…his beloved. He should have known she wouldn’t be able to accept Orson taking him away from her. She would rather die. He should have _known_.

Lyra never liked Orson and he isn’t even surprised when she pulls a gun on him.

“Oh, _Lyra_.” Orson says with a certain amount of disdain. “Troublesome as ever.”

Orson never liked Lyra, so really, Galen shouldn’t be shocked when he has her killed.  
  


* * *

  
It’s Director Krennic now, Galen learns soon after his forced return. How high his old friend has risen, his ambition endless.

His heart is heavy, broken. The loss of Lyra, the loss of Jyn. He’s failed as a husband and a father. It seems his life is an endless circle and his center of gravity will always be Orson Krennic, who he seems doomed to spin around for all eternity.

When will this sham of life end?

He throws himself into his work, a work he is now being forced to complete. There is no joy in it. He's like a machine, empty of a heart, empty of feelings. For months he feels nothing. He can't taste the food in his mouth. The wine on his tongue. He can't feel the wind on his face. Sometimes, he stands in the rain in an attempt to feel something once more. The engineers that work under Galen watch him with varying degrees of pity and concern. Everyone has heard about his situation. Everyone knows that the mercurial Director Krennic doesn't come to Eadu just to be informed on the progression of the work. 

No. He comes to see Galen, even though Galen can barely bring himself to speak to him. They discuss work. Galen won't allow it to be anything more and he hates the glimmer of hope he sees in Krennic's eyes. Orson Krennic is waiting, always waiting for any weakness in Galen to show through. He waits, as if grief is something that passes so simply. As if Galen doesn't feel like his entire heart has been ripped out and smashed on the pavement. Repeatedly. 

"I'm sorry. You have to know I am. About Lyra." Orson says it even as the wound she gave him still heals.

Galen feels his hands clench into tight fists. "You don't need to waste your falsities on me, Orson. I simply do not care."

Those cruel lips quirk unpleasantly. The sympathetic mask falls away and the voice that replaces it is cold. "Have it your way."

The years that pass are long, but Galen is smart enough to know that he needs to play his part. He needs to act like he’s accepted his place in life, even if it’s slowly killing him inside. Eating him alive, piece by piece. Slivers of his soul darkening.

Stars die so slowly, taking millions of years, and yet when they end, it’s always bright and explosive. Galen doesn’t know how much longer he can live this lie. This lie that isn’t always a lie. Not with Orson Krennic.

Despite his clear desire for them to become something more, Orson is still angry with Galen. Even more disturbing is the cruelty that has grown and festered in his former lover turned enemy.

_“You’re confusing peace with terror.”_

_“Well, you have to start somewhere.”_

They are not the words of the boy he once knew. Or, perhaps they are and that is what pains Galen even more. Sickens him. Perhaps he _has_ been blind. Perhaps, at some point in time, Galen had been Orson’s starting point for some ambition. Perhaps friendship had never been the goal. Certainly not affection or love.

Lyra had loved him, with no reservations. She fell in love with Galen for who he was.

 _“He’s using you. He’s always used you and your mind,”_ she’d tell him. _“I don’t think he wanted to need you. His feelings for you were unexpected.”_

Eventually, Galen breaks down. It's hard, to deny the one source of comfort he has left in this world, even though that source of comfort is the very same source that ruined his family. Eventually, the day comes when the Director visits Eadu and Galen doesn't turn him away. Not anymore. He's tired of fighting. Fighting the world. 

They are having a conversation about progress in his suite. Orson, looking crisp in his pale uniform, his hair beginning to gray, just like Galen's. His eyes though are always full of a fire that simply doesn't die. When Galen's report is finished, Orson stands and excuses himself in a clipped tone. "Well done, Erso. I expect more progress next month. Tarkin is always hounding me for more. You know how that old, walking corpse is."

As the officer makes his way to the door, Galen swallows, feels ill. His mouth tastes raw and his heart aches for human touch. He's been horrid and rather wretched in his solitude. Barley caring for his body and his appearance. He's suffering and for once he'd like to not suffer. "Orson." His voice is barely a whisper, but it makes the Director freeze, his hand on the door. 

Orson doesn't turn, but he doesn't leave either. Waiting. 

Forcing the words out of his tight throat, thick with emotion, Galen asks, "Will you stay?"

Now, the Director turns, disbelief on his face, eyes searching. He doesn't believe the words, it seems. Galen has been cold towards him, all this time. Full of an icy indifference, impenetrable in his sorrow. "How do you mean, Galen?"

"Whatever you'd like it to mean, I suppose." He's never been good with words, expressing his feelings. Which is fine, Galen thinks, for his feelings are ugly now. Monstrous. 

Galen's not prepared for the way he feels when Orson Krennic sinks to his knees in front of him with shaking hands and eager eyes.   
  


* * *

  
Oh, the Director is still _mad_. Hates Galen for running away, for abandoning their work. For abandoning him and _oh_ , probably loads of other simplistic reasons that are only privy to Orson Krennic. This is a minor thing, something small that appears in the privacy of the bed they now share. Marks stain Galen's skin, bruises and bites. Reminders of who he owes his life to and who he belongs to. 

Lyra is no longer around to keep him at bay. Only her ghost, the ghost that haunts Galen nightly, when silent tears stream down his face. Agony and sorrow can’t be held inside forever. He must weep silently, because Orson sleeps beside him on the nights that he can visit, warm and very real beside Galen. HIs body is always sated when Orson visits, as his longtime companion is ever the consummate bedmate. Orson knows where to kiss, to touch. He knows what makes Galen shiver. Those keen eyes miss nothing and he touches Galen as if no one has ever come between them. As if Lyra never was. As if all of Orson's own one night stands never existed. 

He joins himself to Galen with unrestrained hunger and vicious adoration, something that seems to have never waned, even though Orson has become far more cruel with age. Usually, Orson takes the dominant role in the bedroom, but sometimes, on very rare occasions, he'll allow Galen to sheathe himself inside, to take advantage of Orson's vulnerability. To listen to those soft sounds that Orson makes, to kiss the lips that say the worst things imaginable. 

Despite the needs of his body, Galen's mind is a weary, dark mess of sorrow and bitterness. 

The years pass, a great many.

Inside, he’s dying slow, like a star. One who once burned so brightly, full of intrigue and curiosity for the wonders of the galaxy. Now, all he tastes is ash, feeling his insides begin to harden. To wither away.

He stares out the window, contemplating the galaxy and its inevitable end. Contemplating how he will sabotage the Death Star, how he will redeem himself before all is said and done. His revenge is slow and silent. 

“Come to bed, Galen. Dammit man, how long do you intend to make me wait?” Orson is chuckling, voice loud and pleased from their shared bedroom. “Until we’re dead?”

Galen hates how weak his flesh is. Hates that his broken heart still has room to love this awful man. 

Striding into the darkened bedroom that smells of them both, their scents mingled in the sheets, Galen rasps, “Patience is a virtue that is rewarded, Orson.”

A nasty little smile shapes those lips, the ones that kiss Galen in the dark hours, full of adoration and greed. The ones that trail down his body, worshipping his nipples, the lines of his abdomen. The mouth that leaves love bites on his inner thighs. The tongue that brings him to his knees with equal parts despair and desire.

“Oh, I know, Galen. I _know_.”

Galen is his again, after all.

It only took a few _years_ and the execution of a troublesome wife.  
  


* * *

  
In the darkness of their room, Orson presses his mouth to Galen's and whispers, _I love you, it's always been you._

Galen's response is to kiss him harder, to eat the words and chew them into nothing. To relish the bruising hands spreading his thighs wide, needing the pain.

Like stars, they aren't meant to last. 

**Author's Note:**

>  **AN:** Well, this is my first Star Wars fandom fic ever, holy crap. Hopefully it wasn't too painful to read XD
> 
> Comments and kudos are loved ♥  
> I may come back and polish this a bit more, I almost feel like it needs more sleaze in it...but who knows.


End file.
